One of Us
by kendrat199
Summary: What if Shane really did take the first chance he had to leave. How will that affect Rick -and subsequently the rest of his group- when they meet again. This story will span multiple perspectives, and starts before and after Season's 3 finale. Expect a fusion of romance (Michonne/Rick and other pairings -based on suggestions), drama, horror, action. Joint fic w/ FranklinsMuse
1. No One Can Make it Alone

**Chapter Title:** No One Can Make it Alone

**Rating**: T (language)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Walking Dead. If I did, I would've kept Shane alive and wrote myself as a Milton-esque character that does whatever he wants.

**Author's note**: From this point onward, chapters might alternate ratings from T to M, but there'll by a warning for each chapter. This might also be a joint fic (meaning another amazing fanfic writer will take the helm every other chapter or so). As always tell me what you thought. What worked for you and what didn't. Regarding the timeline, I went online to see when all this crazy stuff went down (The escape from the farm to the end of the prison arc spans about 8.5 weeks).

**Helpful tips: **The zombie epidemic starts on Day 0, the attack on the farm begins on day 82, and the day the Governor leaves and the survivors arrive at the Prison is day 323.

Please write a review. Reviews make me super happy and let me know that you enjoyed reading what I wrote. If you have suggestions, do tell. If you have criticism (**construct) **tell me as well! I've read over some characters from the comics for some ideas, but the majority of the story will come from the imagination. Uh… what else. I don't like Andrea, but I'll be nice to her in this story. I don't' recommend reading this story if you haven't seen the season 3 finale "Welcome to the Tombs" unless you want spoilers. There will be Richonne (Rick+Michonne) romance in this story but that doesn't mean other pairings can't be explored. Also, this story isn't going to center on just Rick, Michonne, or Shane, but other perspectives as well. If anyone is interested: I listened to Chevelle's Envy when writing the second half of Shane's POV.

* * *

When he arrived, his feet were sore from blisters and unhealed scabs. His clothes gave off a rancid, sour smell that was a combination of dried walker blood, dirt, and his own sweat. He became immune to the smell soon enough, but he knew that if he were among the living, their noses would wrinkle; their foreheads would crease trying to examine where the odor came from. He forgot how many days on foot he had walked. _Was it days or weeks? _He remembered the car breaking down, remembered foraging an abandoned shack for anythin' to eat—_he had found a single can of sardines_. He remembered almost drinking from a stream before noticing that a dead walker's remains were also running along its current. He couldn't remember when he started to walk though.

The Georgian heat was oppressive. He had to trudge along the abandoned road with his hand shielding his eyes as the sun beat against his head and neck. He couldn't sweat anymore. He didn't have the water to. He swallowed involuntarily even though there was nothing to swallow. There was a pang in his throat, and his limbs were no longer aching, but numb. By the time he saw the stone belfry, he thought he was seeing things. _Ding Dong. _Ding Dong. **DIIIIIIIIIING DOOONG**

His head was pounding with every ring of the bell, and yet his feet kept marching, one foot after the other. They didn't stop even as walkers began to stir from behind destroyed ramparts and cars that showed signs they were once on fire. They moved towards him and continued past, their objective the same as his: reach the bell tower.

He moved his head to the right, his mouth refusing to close as he tried to breath in the moisture. He saw six…or maybe it was seven tally marks. His vision was getting blurry, and the road was starting to tilt more noticeably, Beside the tally marks was either the initials L.D or I.D next to it. Squinting at the engravings didn't help none, they only made his eyes hurt more.

He heard shouts that seemed to get farther and closer all at once. Blood spattered him and he almost instinctively licked his lips to taste the liquid. His eyes lifted from the asphalt to meet a man's blue ones.

"Rick?" he mumbled between sore, cracked lips.

The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was a man screaming, "Fuck, we got a breather!"

**Day 82-2 months ago**

That boy…_What was his name again? Randall, yes, _Randall kept talking incessantly loud as if the only thing he could disturb were a few birds in the trees. His shoes stepped onto twigs and dried leaves in wanton abandon, causing an audible _snap_,which made him start grinding his teeth in annoyance. He tuned out Randall from time to time, listening for a moan or two. _Nothing. _He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

"I told myself, 'Man this guy…this guy right here, he'd be perfect for our group…" He watched the boy talk excitedly with his hands turning his head back to offer him a toothy grin. "I'm talkin' about you."

He blinked at him, giving off no expression other than to keep walkin'. Randall didn't get it because he kept blubberin' excitedly.

"Your dumbass leader…the one who calls the shots—"

"He don't call nothin'" he interjected, when he knew darn well he should've kept his mouth shut.

"Whatever...if he would've let me go, I wasn't gonna rat ya'll out. We could've teamed up. We all need to stick together through these hard times."

He felt a slow throbbing just behind the eyes starting to build. He had the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, but he turned to look over his shoulder instead. He could still see the weather vane, though now it appeared more like a dot against a low horizon. _Only a few more hours til' darkness. For someone who just escaped being executed, this boy sure wasn't spoutin' any lines about how grateful he was. _

"It seemed like you were doin' a lot of that when your group was rapin' those two girls and making their father watch."

The boy stopped. His shoulders squared ever so slightly but it was enough for Shane to tense one hand, fingers curling into a lazy fist. The boy relaxed again and kept walking, continuing to trek noisily over the foliage. He couldn't tell if Randall was smiling since his eyes met the boy's back, but he felt like he was. He swallowed an invisible lump in his throat.

"You make mistakes…we all have. This world, it changes us, yano."

_He knew_.

"Anyways, we're alive, aren't we. That counts for somethin'! I can tell by just lookin' at you that you'll fit in perfectly. We need people ta take charge, not just talk outta their asses. When you commit, you commit."

He told him to take a left here, just passed another countless birch tree, as he rushed him. The boy gave a shout that died as soon as his hands seized his windpipe. _Shhh_, he whispered harshly into Randall's ear, his eyes drifting to the boy's heaving chest as he started to hyperventilate. He slammed the boy against the trunk of the tree, his right hand closed around his throat, firm enough to have him struggle to breathe, but not enough for him to pass out.

He smiled…for the first time since arriving at Hershel's farm. Lips stretching to reveal teeth.

"Yano what I find amusing about you Yankees?" He chuckled to himself. "Ya never stop blatherin'. Always talkin' away as if the world gives two shits about what ya'll think. Yano what also amuses me?" He stared into the boy's brown eyes, watched as they got wider as a bead of sweat ran along the side of his face. "Hmm?" Randall shook his head.

"Back in the barn, you told us you didn' do nothin' when your lil' group tortured that family….yano what I thought to myself?" As if on cue, Randall shook his head again, his inhales becoming harsher. "I thought…. 'Man, if he was innocent, he woulda said, 'I couldn't do anything!' Which is true, ain't it!" His voice got louder as his buildin' headache started to subside. "I mean…there's six of them, and just one of you! You probably were the youngest one there, and already scared, while they've probably done things like this before." He nodded this time, so he continued. "They had guns, we know that…so why waste your life tryin' to help strangers when your efforts would've failed anyway!" His mouth was starting to hurt from smiling for so long. He breathed in deeply, his shoulders relaxing.

"I don't blame ya. But..why did you lie to us? We would've understood." _They wouldn't_.

He kept shaking his head back and forth, even when Shane applied more pressure. He still wouldn't budge.

The boy's feet began to slide out from under him as he became weaker and Shane let him go, let him sink to his knees to fall to the ground. He adjusted himself to sit on his ass, raking in gulps of air in between shouting curses.

"Fuck….man….I," He leaned his head against the base of the tree, his hair clinging to his forehead thanks to a combination of his sweat and the humidity.""ain't…no….liar."

Shane offered him his hand, pulling him up so that his back rested against bark. "No, because the truest words you've said is that we gotta do what we have to to survive in this world." Randall started to stand again, brushing off a combination of leaves and mud off the front of his pants. He twisted his upper body to look at the back of his pants, but that was all the time Shane needed.

He wrapped his arm around Randall's neck, causing the boy's body to involuntarily arch backwards into him. Shane pulled as tightly as he could, dropping both him and Randall to the floor. As they fell he heard an audible _craaack. _He looked at the boy's chest as it rose up and down, knowing that in a few minutes it'd stop.

The movies could never get a decent neck-snap maneuver right; no, what was needed was a lot of force. Said force made him pant though. He wiped beads of sweat with the back of his hand as he watched Randall's feet kick and his fingers twitch. He stood up, one hand supporting his weight against the side of the tree. All the rage he had been feeling til now: from that ridiculous meeting they had to discuss the dearly departed Randall to Lori lying to him telling him she didn't love him -that they were a mistake- forced him to scream. That scream caused a few sparrows to take flight from nearby branches. Without thinking, he hit his head against the bark so hard his feet started to stagger. When he pressed his fingers to his temple and pulled them away, he saw a smear of blood on his hands. The smile tried to force its way back, but he suppressed it.

He looked down at Randall's chest as it began to slow to a standstill. _Finally no more talkin'_

Once again his brown eyes scanned the area for any walkers, but once again, there were none. He looked back towards where Hershel's farm should be, and thought about goin' back. Rick was too far up his own ass with power to listen to reason, but maybe he could convince Lori and Carl to come with him…He exhaled through his nose, no. That wasn't likely. He looked ahead of him, a new path presented itself.

"_This world, what it is now, this is where you belong. And I may not have what it takes to last for long, but that's okay. 'Cause at least I can say when the world goes to shit, I didn't let it take me down with it"._

Dale was right. He wasn't meant to survive long. He was weak, and he was idealistic, and those two never meshed well when the world truly did go to shit. It was survival of the fittest now, and here was his chance to thrive. Breathing never felt so good.

He took a step forward, and another, blood cascading down the side of his face as the sun went down. He never looked back to see Randall's fingers twitch again, and his feet kick.

* * *

Present-Day 323

Carl wasn't speaking to him. Every time he began a march towards his son, the boy would walk off in the opposite direction. He exhaled slowly. He was never good with words and he wasn't sure if he was relieved or not when he didn't have to start a conversation. _Lori would've went after him._

He replayed Carl's words in his head dozens of times as he sat with every Woodbury survivor-most of them women. He had to get to know their weaknesses and their strengths. Unfortunately, the majority of them were on the weaker side. As he talked to each one, his hand slid into his right pocket to grasp the sheriff badge that Carl had dropped. _He'd want it back.._ he told himself.

"Why can't we just stay at Woodbury?" an old woman asked. _What was her name? Miss Williams. _This was the ninth time he's been asked today.

The other Woodbury survivors sat at other long tables within the mess hall, some with their own people and others mixed in with his group. Daryl was sitting alongside Carol, allowing her to do all the talking with Tyrese and Sascha. Hershel was holding one woman's wrist, moving his fingers deftly over hers, between the joints. Rick watched as he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. He said something, but he was too far and Miss William's question was asked too loudly for him to hear what the older man said. He guessed—had hoped-Carl was off helping Beth with Judith.

"Like I said earlier, the defenses are better at the prison."

"We could fortify it," a man named Stinson leaned towards him. _He didn't get it._

"Woodbury might've been great against walkers, but we easily got into your little safe haven. Just the three of us…What do you think's gonna happen when the Governor comes back? You think it'll take a man who founded that town any time to find some secret entrance he probably built? Anyone who goes back will be treated like the others on the road back there."His blue eyes moved from Stinson to the speaker.

_Michonne. _She didn't sugarcoat anything, and a Woodbury citizen like Stinson wasn't used to that. The lean man chewed on the inside of his cheek, but didn't press the topic anymore.

"If any of ya'll wanted to stay at Woodbury. Why'd you come? We aren't like the Governor. We're not gonna tell ya what's safe for you if you adhere to our rules and what will endanger you if you don't. Go, if ya want. You're takin' up the little hot water we had anyway." She sat on the edge of his table top, holding her katana on her lap, staring at her own reflection mirrored upon the silver.

His lips twitched, almost forming a mockery of a smile. _She had a point…even if it wasn't tactful. _Half seemed offended and the other half, scared. _He should reassure them. _He stood up from the bench.

"We've all lost loved ones during the outbreak. Maybe the Governor is gone for good. Maybe we have nothin' to worry about by returnin'. But do you want to take that chance? Ya'll heard what he did to the rest of your men and women, who wanted to leave peaceful lives. He massacred them in cold blood! My friend—" he breathed, "Our friend, Andrea, only wanted to protect us, to save us all. She took her own life after the governor turned your scientist…" he paused, trying to remember his name out of all the names he had to now learn, "Milton into a pawn. The Governor tortured Andrea for days, wanted me to give up one of my own members…" He turned to look down at Michonne, but during his speech she must've walked off. He continued, "Simply because she wanted to expose him for the man that he was. By going back, you'll have to live with all the horrors that your leader did, knowing that he did it for himself, not for your safety. If you can live with that, then by all means, leave. There's always someone worse. And Woodbury with all its semblance of what life used to be before Day 0, will attract those with the worst intentions."

He saw Hershel smile up at him. Carol nodded up at him, Daryl made a silent-if not teasing- clap. Carl locked eyes with his, but left before he could call out his name.

Glenn and Maggie came back with their riot gear covered in walker remains, successful at clearing out another cell block. "Did we miss anything?" Glenn asked,wiping guts from his helmet with the back of his gloved hand. Rick shook his head no in amusement.

For the next three hours he walked around, plastering a smile upon his lips as the newcomers past him. He mouthed his courtesies as best as he could until he could be alone with his thoughts.

He found her in the kitchen, leaning against a windowsill, looking through the barred windows.

"You could've been nicer." He said.

"Yeah…well. Niceness isn't going to save anyone" she didn't say anything other than that. It seemed she wasn't good with words either.

He nodded. He wondered what she was looking at and he moved towards her, only to stop.

"I'm sorry about Andrea, Michonne."

"She was your friend too."

He nodded. "It don't make me being sorry any less true."

She turned towards him, her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. As he made a footstep towards her, he saw them harden.

He instinctively ran his hand through his right pocket, pulling at the five-pointed star inside. Her eyes focused on the golden point of one side before turning back to look outside the barred window.

"He'll want it back, Rick. Just…give him time." She sighed. Her hands slid off the windowsill as she moved past him.

In his mind, his hand grasped her own in thanks, in support as she walked by. But it only stayed glued to the badge.

He finally was alone with his thoughts, but now he didn't want to be.

**To be Continued…**


	2. Searching

**Title: Searching**

**Author(s)**: FranklinsMuse and myself. I beta'd and she provided about 85-90% of the chapter.

**Rating**: T for some vulgarity

**Warning**: This is mostly Richonne and a large chunk is devoted to Michonne and her experiences with Andrea. Those sympathetic to Andrea or hate her can leave comments!

**A/N**: Sorry for taking so long to update. I recently started belly dancing which has taken up some of my nights. In addition, I got sick over the last two weeks. Anywho, thank you so much readers and FranklinsMuse for all the support! I hope you enjoy. All critiques and praise will be forwarded to FranklinsMuse herself. :] please R&R. If you're interested in joining us and writing a chapter for this story, please PM me. Also, let me know if you want chapter 3 (the chapter I'll be writing in its entirety) to be focused solely on Shane and what he's going through. Here's two words you should know the meaning of so you don't have to open a new tab!

**Agoraphobia: **Extreme or irrational fear of crowded spaces or enclosed public places.

**Kenjutsu**: Training with the katana and other weapons (depends on school) for use in combat.

**Kata** are routines that should be practiced when dealing with hand to hand combat lessons

* * *

A day had passed since Rick had talked to Michonne in the kitchen. They found themselves occupying the same area at various times throughout the day, be it cell block A, the mess hall, or the laundromat. However, neither had anything to say to the other and nods became too tiresome to do every time. Rick checked in with Tyrese regarding a few items sacked from Woodbury. Maggie called out to him in his mid-conversation about ammo. "Michonne's gone off." She chewed her bottom lip in worry as he walked towards her. He noticed her hands began to fidget until she put them in her pockets

"She's always walking off. She's just not a people person" he said gruffly, attempting to ease her worry so he could return to his check-ins.

"She seemed pretty distressed, Rick. She went off down that hallway over there, but it hasn't been cleared yet." He knew that Michonne could handle herself, but turned to go in after her. Maggie handed him a flash light as he walked off into the darkness. He paced along the poorly lit room, lost in reflectionf. _She just needs time alone; after all, she just lost Andrea._ He corrected himself, _**we**__…just lost Andrea_; she was our friend too. He should've turned back around and gave her her space, but his feet kept moving, one right after the other in a determined effort to reach their destination.

* * *

Michonne walked down the dark, musty corridors, thinking about Andrea's final moments in Woodbury. Her eyes began to fill with tears she could no longer hold back as her feet became rooted to the floor. She leaned her back against the wall and began to sob. She thought about the first time she saw Andrea. She was alone, exhausted, and defenseless... so close to being just another casualty of a walker attack.

Michonne was in the area when she stumbled across the abandoned farm and its dead inhabitants. She took out a few walkers, though countless came to offer themselves as replacements**.** Briefly, she glimpsed to the left and right, searching for someone, anyone that could've wandered to this once secure location like herself. The increase in groaning made her heart falter. _A herd._ She was in the midst of a herd, and that meant she was fucked if her plan didn't work. Her fist wrapped around the forked chain, causing the metal to make an indent in her skin. She moved her _pets _closer, their shoulders alternating right and left as if their uneven stumps could get ahold of her. They clumsily trudged after her,. The majority of the herd moved past her and her chained walkers, but a few would hesitate and turn towards her, eyes staring blankly at her form. She hacked the ones that got too close for comfort and when that became tiring, she chose to flee. As she ran, leather soles sinking into a caked mixture of mud and the tattered clothing left by victims or walkers themselves, she hoped that if there were survivors, they were on the run too.

Countless trees zoomed past; the sound of her boots on leaves quickly became unnoticeable. Her eyes scanned the sky looking for birds as if that'd tell her that she was indeed alone, that death no longer lingered. Her eyes shifted to the ground and observed tracks. The tracks were human. She knew by the narrow size of the shoe they couldn't belong to a man, and they were too big to belong to a child. Size 9 it would seem, just one size larger than hers. If a walker had made the tracks, they would've constantly shifted their weight on their right foot, causing said foot to have a noticeably heavier imprint than the left.

Michonne followed the tracks and it led her straight to Andrea just in the nick of time. She saw the blonde haired woman fall to the ground; a walker right above her, lunging at her with outstretched arms. Michonne quickly drew her sword and severed its head before it could get a hold of her.

The first thing Andrea said to her, body slumped on the ground was barely audible. "Who are you?" she asked, eyes squinting, yet unfocused. There wasn't enough time to talk so she merely said, "Come" in reply. She offered her her hand. Andrea grabbed it weakly and made her way with Michonne through the dense woods, leaving the sounds of the undead behind.

The two quickly came to depend on one another: one learning how to survive, and one learning how to be a human again. They watched each other's backs against the walkers during food raids-small hovels left behind, an abandoned truck or two, small shacks barely barred were exhaustively explored.

Michonne taught Andrea everything she'd learned about foraging and living off the land. She taught her how to identify plants. Amaranth, she told her, was an edible weed that could be eaten raw and in its entirety. She had her observe the Amaranth's leaves, which more often than not contained spines rich with oxalic acid or nitrates. She told her that giving the leaves a quick dip in boiling water stripped them of such impurities. There were cattails whose rootstock could be found underground and boiled like spinach, and whose flower spikes could be broken off and eaten like corn on the cob. Clovers, chickory, and dandelion just added to the dozens that she categorized for Andrea to forage for when she was off looking for game. She taught her how certain plants needed to be avoided when they matched certain characteristics like if their sap was discolored or milky, if they had heads with pink, purplish, or black spurs, or if the leaves smelled of almonds. Those that didn't offer nutrition had medicinal uses like yarrow which coagulated the blood, and hollyhook that helped eased respiratory and inflammatory ailments. The medicinal uses of the plants helped especially when the temperature dropped enough to be noticeable and their clothes clung to the sweat and dirt from the hours of working in the humidity.

Michonne taught her about the native wild life in Georgia like voles, snakes, and raccoons, and how to track, trap, and hunt them. Andrea was shown how to get a sense of direction if lost in the wilderness by tracking the sun during the day and finding the North Star at night. They worked side by side collecting brush, leaves, and vines to make modified temporary shelters during downpours. When Andrea asked her how she knew so much about the wilderness, she confessed her obsession with _Man vs. Wild and Survivorman. _They were a godsend. She confessed that she never would've thought that those episodes would be critical to her own survival. A day later, as they sat around a small fire, turning a wooden spit over the flames, Andrea admitted that she and her sister Amy had a major crush on the British survivalist, Bear Grylls.

In the beginning, Michonne had done most of the hunting with Andrea taking mental note like a cub. However, after a few weeks, she went out on her own, finding unmolested creeks to fish from or tiny shacks to ransack. She would come back hours later with either canned goods in her arms, some with tabs to open them or several fish on a baited line. Michonne with all her knowledge of the woods knew nothing of fishing. Andrea gave her tips on fishing, what types would offer better cooking and how to use a variety of lures for bigger fish. Sometimes Michonne would wake up before the sun rose, scavenging for worms to bait the hooks. Before the birds would sing their morning song, she'd sit by Andrea, one end of a shoe string in her hand, the other end tied around the makeshift hook teasing the fish below. _Those days were peaceful._

Once the winter came though, food and resources became considerably more difficult to find. They gave each other moral support during the harsh winter months that followed.

When Andrea became more independent and more confident in her skill, she began to open up to Michonne about her life before _this. _Andrea and her younger sister Amy lived together; Amy was a bright and aspiring marine biologist, and Andrea, herself was a successful civil rights attorney in Atlanta, doing more pro bono legal service than anyone else in the city. _She told her what happened to Amy._

Amy wanted so desperately to reunite with their parents. She talked of how their father could survive anything, and how she was worried that her mother wouldn't be able to adapt to the countryside. Andrea told her of the times they'd lay side by side in Dale's RV just musing over where their parents were and if their mother became less picky about the game her husband brought back. When they stopped talking about scenarios where her parents were alive and well, living in a protective community, they talked about how much they missed them. Every time they considered leaving in search for their parents, the sobering thought of the unpredictable dangers outside of their camp lingered and made them hesitant. In the end, Andrea prayed at night that her mother and father were still alive, but had lost hope of ever seeing them again. When Amy was killed, Andrea felt as if she was truly alone and no longer wanted to go on. Michonne didn't know what to say in condolence, so she offered her hand, which Andrea took gratefully.

As easy as it was for Andrea to open up- or for her to make it seem so- the bond was one-sided. It was hard for Michonne to talk about her life before Day 0. Sometimes she would sit and look at the fire, watch as the flames dance and hear a voice or two from her past. She'd shake her head and suppress most of the memories and the ones that lingered, she refused to share. Andrea wasn't the first person she's come across since the outbreak. No, there were many others who had got separated from their group or had been lone rangers themselves. If she learned anything from the world that she knew and the one that she was in now, it was that if you wanted to survive you'd have to be weary. However, despite their differences in personality and her unwillingness to, Michonne became attached to Andrea. She felt she was her kindred spirit. What she told her were tidbits, mere teasings that she could give to solidify their friendship. She told her that she was also a lawyer and that she too had lost those in similar fashion to Amy: a bullet to the head with her finger on the trigger. Andrea didn't learn of Michonne's own agony when she had to kill her own daughters when they turned. She didn't even learn who the armless, jawless walkers were as they were chained nearby each night. The only full story she told her was how she came by her most prized possession: her katana.

* * *

Michonne was leaving the office one night, making her way towards the parking garage. Off in the distance she heard the shrieks of bats searching for their meal, and saw a few moths flutter around light fixtures as she walked from one level of the parking structure to the other. When she spotted her car, off on its own, her fingers ran to her pocket, grasping for the keys inside. She was within a foot of her car door when she glimpsed her reflection in the window and that of a hooded figure behind her. Before she could turn around a hand grabbed her by her hair, yanking her head back as another hand clasped over her mouth before she could think to scream. She couldn't remember breathing, but she guessed she must've been inhaling through her uncovered nose. She mumbled what do you want through the man's gloved fingers and was met with her head being slammed against the window. The first time her head contacted the glass, she felt nothing. Perhaps it was the adrenaline coursing through her veins or maybe it was just a tap to tell her to be quiet. She bit her attacker's hand and was met with her head being slammed harder. Her temple contacted the glass splintering it upon impact and causin it to shatter when her head hit it again. She had thought that he wanted her car for he paused in his attack. She felt a rivulet of blood run over her right eye and thought that he'd leave her there and just take the car. She incoherently mumbled about her keys. Her head bounced off the rim of the car door. She fell unconscious after the fifth time. Michonne was found by the night security guard an hour later and rushed to the hospital.

When she gained consciousness at Houston's Methodist hospital, she asked…no, demanded to know if she had been sexually assaulted. The doctor said she suffered a severe concussion. The police came in a half hour after her doctor left. Officer Romero asked her a few questions that she couldn't answer._How tall was he? _He was about 6 ft tall._ What was his ethnicity?_ I don't know_. Did he have scars or noticing marks about him? _I don't know_. What did he sound like? Did he have an accent?_ I don't know. He brought in a sketch artist, and she told him about her attacker, that his hands were large, calloused, and that he wore either a red or an orange hoodie. The sketch artist looked at her with an arched eyebrow as the police officer said they'd look into it and that she could rest easy.

As she waited for her boyfriend to come so she could be released, her heartbeat raced, and her breathing became shallow and rushed. _Rest easy? _It was hard to breathe with all the machines around her, trapping her and holding her down. She turned towards the other patient on the other side of the room, watched as the elderly woman kept switching channels as she fought through her panic attack.

After that day, she started suffering signs of agoraphobia. She didn't want to leave her house. She isolated herself and became anti-social and neurotic. _Did the man who attacked her know where she lived? Could he be waiting for her in the bushes, looking up into her bedroom at night, planning a massacre? What if he was just one of the many enemies that she had made as a prosecutor against major corporations. What if someone planted a bomb under her car? What if she stepped outside and a car hit her. Her boyfriend was a father figure to her kids, but he couldn't support her two girls on his own._ All these thoughts and many more plagued her day and night when she was at home, at the grocery store, or at the office. She started calling in sick after the initial break her boss had given her following the assault. When her sick days were used up, she told her clients to come to her house to discuss their cases. As clients met her at home, she'd ask them if they told others where she lived, if they were followed, if they were threatened by the group they were suing. When a noticeable amount of her clients decided to ask for other legal services, she knew she had a problem. Her phobia as a result of her trauma was destroying her sense of well-being and safety. It ruined her relationship with her boyfriend, Mike, as she found it harder to maintain their intimacy. Every time he left, he'd come back later and later each night and she said nothing, not knowing what to say. The police said they'd look into her case, _but they didn't. She didn't even see the sketch of him in the newspaper. _After all the accumulated stress, it was her two daughters, Erica and Renee who gave her the strength and courage to seek help.

Janelle, Michonne's older sister was a dance instructor and owned her own studio in downtown Houston. She recommended the self-defense instructor next door. She urged Michonne to take self-defense classes, hoping her sister would gain a peace of mind so she and Mike could rekindle the relationship they once had, so that Michonne could get her life back. Michonne agreed and after taking a few classes, she was impressed with Ryan Lin's self defense course and by a decrease in her anxiety attacks. After a month and a half, she decided to continue to see him rather than a shrink. She felt empowered knowing that she could be her own weapon, that she wasn't helpless.

Michonne was the perfect student. She never complained or missed a lesson. Mr. Lin told her how surprised he was at her determination. One course per week turned to two, then it became an unlimited session where she could go everyday if she wanted to. As she practiced movements repetitively her eyes wandered towards the antique sword cushioned in a glass case behind the counter time and time again. As she dispensed every sparring partner, she imagined what it'd be like to have that sword in her hand. One day, as she toweled off after an hour and a half of sparring, she asked if she could see the lance inside. Mr. Lin took it out of the case and showed her, and watched her smile as her eyes reflected against the stainless steel. He surprised her by putting it in her hands and told her how to properly hold the katana. The weight of it made her feel whole again. She turned to face a sidelong mirror and saw herself in a different light, katana grasped between her two hands. For the first time, she didn't feel vulnerable. _She had to have it._

She asked if he would show her how to use the sword. Mr. Lin laughed and when he saw that she was serious, adamantly refused. He told her flatly that she couldn't take that kind of martial arts lesson seriously, especially as a female. He told her that teaching someone how to handle that kind of sword would take time and patience. She promised him she was completely dedicated and offered to pay for his time. Like everyone in the largest city in Texas, there was always a price. Mr. Lin saw an easy way to earn a buck and she saw a way to gain her life back. It was a perfect deal as any lawyer like herself would find. Mr. Lin then became known as Sensei Lin.

She endured the rigorous training of Kenjutsu and became a natural at the use of the weapon after nine months. Every time she practiced kata, getting one step closer to fluidity and fluency, she imagined her attacker and her fear of the unknown. With every slash, the threat lessened until it stood a mere murmur in the back of her mind. She knew that anyone who tried to harm her would soon come to regret it. If by chance they lived to tell about it, they would let others know not to fuck with her. That she would make them suffer as she had suffered.

* * *

All Michonne wanted now was to survive. She knew in this world that was all anyone could hope for now. Her mind was brought back to the present. The air was hot and muggy in the narrow corridor.

She came close to dying by the Governor's hands. She should've taken his life and not just his eye. She cursed the day she allowed herself and Andrea to stay at Woodbury. She went along because Andrea was ill even when all her senses were telling her to keep moving. Andrea needed real medication not a mesh of plants and she needed to rest, not close her eyes for an hour or two at a time. The were too many signs around her telling her no and telling her to stay clear, that any sense of civilization came at a cost that no one could afford to pay. But the memories of her and Andrea talking by the fire, her recollection of all the times Andrea gave her her own hand, and her being the only person that gave Michonne the purpose to want to live would flood over her. She didn't want to be alone again, she couldn't survive it.

After Andrea's death she became restless, trying to think of how Andrea had missed the signs. It was unfathomable how Andrea was umable to see the Governor for what he was: a tyrant and a sociopath. Staying there just a day was much too long. But Andrea wanted to stay there for longer than a day, she wanted to live there for a semblance of what she had before _this_. She wanted to be reminded of people like Amy, like her urbanite mother, like the father who taught her how to fish.

In the end, she understood what Andrea was trying to do as she lie dying. She was trying to belong; she wanted to show people that humanity wasn't lost, but just needed to be searched for. She wanted to show everyone that we still needed each other no matter the cost. But Michonne felt that was not the world they now lived in; she wondered if it ever was.

_Why Andrea, why couldn't you see that monster for what he was?_

Her thoughts were interrupted by a noise. She quickly stood up and withdrew her katana from the hilt strapped to her back.

* * *

Rick heard Michonne's sobbing, the sound of which echoed down the hall. He cautiously maneuvered down the unexplored corridor. The hall was completely dark except for a ray of outside light peaking though the hallway's small window slits. The flashlight added a new beam of light to meet its natural counterpart.

He was so focused on following those sobs, of reaching her, that he jerked back when two walkers stumbled out of the darkness and lunged towards him. He quickly drew his gun one handed and shot them at point blank range, one bullet going through the head of one and lodging in the head of the other.

Michonne must've heard the commotion for she was in front of him a few seconds later, sword drawn. They faced each other with their weapons pointed at the other. Before they could ask questions, three more walkers emerged from the shadows and began to approach Rick from behind. Michonne moved past his shoulder before he could pull the trigger and swung her blade, decapiting walkers left and right.

They both stood in the hall surrounded by a pile of moving limbs, catching their breaths from the adrenaline.

Rick's glare focused on her. He could see the tracks from her tears on her high cheek bones. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to thank her for how great she's been with Carl. The night before, Carl came by his cell, but didn't enter. He was relieved that Michonne was right and went to hug his son, but Carl stopped him to ask Rick if Michonne could take the night watch with him. Rick agreed resisting the urge to ask his son why he was avoiding him and swallowed the lump in his throat. Rick spent the whole night wondering what they talked about as he laid on his beaten mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was reluctant to admit it, but he was intrigued by her silence, her stealth, her no nonsense attitude that made her a force to be reckoned with. Rick felt lucky to have her in the group. He appreciated the fact that she understood why he had to hand her over to the Governor, though he still felt he owed her something. He hoped he could one day repay the debt.

Michonne stood there with that stone cold look in her eyes. That look, she had perfected till it was natural, caused him to step back. He placed his hands on his hips, his forehead crinkling.

The silence became deafening, He looked at her, and she at him. He swallowed the lump in his throat, thinking about what he planned to say when he stalked off after her. He couldn't think of anything. She look at him, her dark brown eyes meeting his blue ones. She smiled and walked away.

He ran his hands through his dark wavy hair, watched her walk away, his lips stretching into a wide smile. For some reason, he always seemed to find himself watching her walk away; he wasn't sure why, it just felt natural.

**To be continued...**


End file.
